


DEFCON 5

by Kanoodle



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, blood & injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:11:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4247142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanoodle/pseuds/Kanoodle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the word prompt meme: Gargalesthesia - the sensation caused by tickling.</p><p>With lives as unpredictable as theirs, there are only a few certainties that exist as pillars for the Guardians -- those which serve as guiding lights for their every decision.  For Gamora, that certainty is this:</p><p>Peter Jason Quill is an idiot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	DEFCON 5

Peter Quill was an idiot.

Whatever higher power existed in this universe – if, indeed, a higher power existed – thought it fit to create Peter Jason Quill as a warning to all other sentient beings in the galaxy. A warning against what, exactly, remained to be seen, but Gamora would wager he served as a cautionary tale against a lack of forethought, against failing to utilize one’s common sense.

It was the only way to explain his penchant for causing and attracting trouble.

It was the only way to explain why he tackled her down in the middle of a firefight, taking a bullet to his side for his efforts.

Someone screamed his name, an ugly, horrified noise – and it was only later that Gamora realized it had been _her._ She remembered Rocket shouting, “ _Quill’s down!_ ” remembered hearing Drax howl and redouble his efforts, but what was truly etched into her memory was the way Peter had curled in on himself, pain written across every inch of his face.

“You damned fool!” she had screamed. She rolled him onto his back, watching as blood blossomed across his shirt. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Wasn’t.” He tried to smile but grimaced instead. He had let out something caught between a sob and a laugh, and Gamora had the confusing sensation of both wanting to slap him and wanting to gather him into her arms at once. His head fell back against the dirt, chin tipping up to expose his throat. “It hurts,” he grit out. Gamora pressed her hands to his wound, and he gasped sharply, trying to pull them away. “Don’t— don’t touch it— it _hurts_.”

She slapped his hands away and said sharply, “It will hurt worse if you’re dead.”

By the time the fighting had ended, her hands were slick with his blood, scarlet and cooling against her fingers. Peter had been silent and unmoving beneath her, and no matter how much she screamed at him to wake, he would not answer. Drax dragged her away as Groot scooped the Terran up and hurried back to the _Milano._

And for the first time in a long while, she had been terrified.

 

 

And when he finally woke in a quiet hospital room, eyes hazy from sleep and drugs, his soft, fond smile had been the sweetest thing she had ever seen.

 

 

That had been approximately one month ago, but the effects of Peter’s injury still lingered – and that was another problem, Gamora thought. Peter was far too fragile for a man so terribly determined to constantly throw himself in harms’ way. Had she taken that bullet, she would have recovered within a handful of days without any trouble, thanks to the modifications Thanos had forced upon her.

But it _hadn’t_ been her. It had been their imbecile of a leader, their idiot Terran, whose body was so delicate he should have been made of glass. She had seen him bruise himself merely by bumping into a wall, had witnessed him cut himself on the edge of a sheet of paper, and yet Peter waded into battle with the rest of them, when the need arose. He was the frailest of them, the most breakable, and yet he was so terribly fond of sacrificial acts of heroism.

Buffoon, Gamora thought bitterly. Ass. Idiot.

By the time Peter had been released from the hospital, Gamora was _angry,_ enraged even, until the sight of Peter filled her with disgust – and given the size of the _Milano_ , she saw him quite often, much to the displeasure of everyone involved. The small ship was filled with a tension so thick, even Drax understood what it meant to cut it with a knife.

And now she had the misfortune of crossing paths with the imbecile once more, as she passed by the small area Peter had auspiciously named the “medbay.”

The third time she watched him reach up, only to hiss with discomfort as he pulled at the tender, healing flesh of his wound, Gamora had sighed loudly enough to make him jump in surprise. She brushed past him and pulled down the bandages he had seemed to want.

She watched the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, and he licked his lips nervously. “Thanks,” he murmured, reaching a hand out for the roll.

Instead of handing it over, she shoved him toward the table they used as an examining couch. His yelp was more than worth having to suffer his company, she decided.

“Sit,” she commanded, and she was gratified to see him do so without further argument. “Take off your shirt.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, mouth curling into one of his most infuriating smirks. His lips parted, some lewd comment surely on the tip of his tongue, and Gamora silenced him with a glare. He swallowed nervously, pulling off his shirt without a word. For a short time, at least.

“So, uh,” he said slowly, hesitantly. “Listen, I know you’re pissed at me.”

He paused, as though waiting for acknowledgement. Gamora offered no such thing, retrieving the supplies necessary for treating the Terran’s injury.

“Oookay, then,” he murmured, breathing out a sigh. “So that’s how it’s gonna be.”

The surface wound was healing nicely, Gamora observed, once the bandages had been pulled away; the internal injuries were another matter entirely, of course, though she suspected those were healing without trouble, as well. The other day, she had seen Peter doing that ridiculous swaying and sashaying he called _dancing_ , though he had frozen when he realized she had been watching.

… Not that she had been watching him. There were only so many thoroughfares on the ship, and she had simply been taking that corridor.

She went through the necessary steps to disinfect the wound, and Peter evidently saw fit to try again.

“Whatever I did, I’m sorry, okay? I’m really sorry? I’m really, really, _really_ sorry?”

Once again, she offered no answer – mostly because she had none in mind. Having allies was a difficult thing, she realized; for as long as she could remember, she could rely on no one but herself. Her siblings, as Thanos liked to call them, would betray her in an instant, if it meant their own survival. They all strove for perfection, fought and killed and bled for his amusement and favor, to avoid his tortuous punishment. They would forge temporary alliances, only to break them in the next breath. They would leave each other to die, if Thanos commanded it.

And now she kept the company of a foolish man-child made of sawdust, who threw himself in front of bullets on her behalf.

Ridiculous, she thought – though she found it difficult to tell if she meant Peter or herself.

At last, the set of her shoulders relaxed, and she released a quiet breath. “I am not angry,” she said.

His expression twisted into something doubtful, incredulous. “Uh, okay, so how do you wanna explain the past few weeks?”

She pursed her lips. “I am _no longer_ angry,” she corrected.

Peter laughed in disbelief, though she could hear the relief there, as well. She could see the way his muscles relaxed beneath his skin (far too thin to provide any sort of protection, she thought with distaste; it’s a wonder any Terrans could survive infancy.)

“Great. Okay. Take us to DEFCON 5. How about a nice game of chess?”

“What?”

“—Nothing,” he said, smiling. “Don’t worry about it.”

She pressed a pad over his wound, and he held it in place without her prompting.

“I would have been fine,” she said, and she tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. “There was no need for you to push me out of the way as you did. I was made to withstand worse things.”

He bowed his head, shrugging, looking rather like a child who had been caught snatching sweets. “I just—I wasn’t thinking. I saw the guy aiming his gun, and you didn’t notice, so I did what I had to.”

“But there was no _need._ ” Her eyes narrowed when he finally caught her gaze. “I am a warrior, not a damsel in need of rescuing, Peter. I do not need coddling, nor do I need protecting.”

“I _know_ that,” Peter said, and when Gamora searched his face, he even seemed to believe it. “I just didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“So instead, _you_ were hurt.”

He laughed again, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “I’ll admit, as far as most of my plans go? That wasn’t my best one.”

Gamora’s eyebrows knit together in a frown, and she crossed her arms. “It was unnecessary and careless, Peter Quill. Idiotic and—”

“Heroic?” he tried with a hopeful smile.

“—Absurd,” she finished. “I expect you to never do it again.”

Peter made a noise not too dissimilar from a klaxon. “Nope, not making that promise.”

She sighed. “So you’ll leap directly into harm’s way, every time anyone is threatened by a gun?”

“Not anyone,” he said softly, and there was a sort of intensity in his gaze she had never seen before. “Just you.”

And her knowledge of spoken language seemed to disappear from her mind.

His gaze darted away when it became clear she had no reply for him, and he cleared his throat, adding, “And Drax. And Rocket and Groot. I’d do it for them, too.”

After that, they lapsed into silence, and with no words coming to mind, she began to wind the bandage around his waist.

At length, Peter said, “None of you need protecting. I know that. That’s not going to stop me from _wanting_ to protect you. All of you. I mean, we’re a team now. And we’re friends. That’s gotta count for something. Does that make sense?”

It did, in a way, though it was puzzling, to say the least. Even more puzzling that, she found she appreciated it.

Gamora was not typically the gentle type, nor was she the type to offer comfort like some kindly nursemaid, but she could try, she supposed. At least, she tried until she noticed the way he tensed at the brush of her fingers and inhale sharply, his teeth worrying his bottom lip.

“Am I hurting you?” she asked, alarmed.

“No, no, I’m fine,” he said, holding up a hand to reassure her. “I just—kinda sensitive around that area.”

When Gamora looked further alarmed (with Quill being Quill, with her hazy grasp of Terran biology, and with the vagueness of his comment, Gamora had assumed the _worst_ ), Peter hastily added, “No, not— _Gamora,_ really? No. I meant I’m just kinda ticklish there.”

Her head canted to one side, curious, and she brushed her fingers against the same spot along his waist. Sure enough, his inhale of breath was merely a choked off laugh.

“Dude, come on.” Peter took hold of her wrist, though she snatched it away easily enough. “Cut it out.”

On a hunch, she used both hands to ghost her fingers along both of his sides, and she was rewarded with a high pitched _giggle,_ unlike anything she had heard from Peter before, and he tried ineffectually to grasp at her wrists. She smirked, a wicked little thing, and attacked in full force to peals of laughter, as he squirmed and tried to escape. With a cry of, “ _Enough, enough,_ ” Peter wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides and pulling her against him. He was breathless, cheeks red and lips curled in a smile, and she found herself amused by the display. It was a rare thing to see Peter unmasked, as he was now, with none of the infuriating swagger and egotism typical of him.

His eyes caught hers, and she could feel the way he suddenly tensed; it was only then that she realized their faces were mere breaths apart. That strange intensity returned to his gaze, and Gamora found herself fascinated by it, more than anything. She could break his hold easily, if need be, but—

She found herself curious to see where this led.

Granted, there was no need – his arms loosened around her, until his hands fell to her waist. Peter licked his lips, and this close, she could see the way his jaw ticked, as though he had reached a decision. Slowly, he moved forward, and as if taking an invisible cue, she leaned forward as well—

“Dammit, Drax! What’d we say about leavin’ your goddamn knives lyin’ around?!”

The two of them jumped apart – Gamora more than Peter, considering he was still seated on the table – just as Rocket trudged into view, muttering invectives and clutching his bleeding hand. He glanced up, looking between the two of them with a suspicious glare.

“The hell’s goin’ on in here?”

“Nothing, I was—”

“Gamora was—”

“He couldn’t reach the bandages, and—”

“She was givin’ me a hand with—”

“Holy hell. Forget I asked,” Rocket muttered. He leapt onto the counter to open the first aid kit they kept for small emergencies, retrieving disinfectant and small bandages for his injury. That done, he stormed off, voice raised to continue lecturing Drax.

Peter hopped off the table, pulling his shirt back on and turning his back to her. “I, uh.” He cleared his throat. “Thanks. For the help. With the bandages, I mean.”

“Of course,” she said quietly. She walked past him as he readjusted his shirt, and she paused, searching for something to add. Eventually she turned to him and said, “We’re a team now, after all.”

His eyes widened in surprise – but he was pleased, if his wide grin was any indication. It was nothing like his usual smirks or teasing smiles, the ones that were equal parts charming and maddening. This was far more genuine, slightly crooked and imperfect.

She found herself smiling in return.


End file.
